The brigadier, distinguished by a particularly large and dictatorial hat, raised a large hand. Behind him the cavalry stilled, flanking the werewolves. Now the British outnumbered the Vanaras, and surely the infantry would follow soon.

Rue slunk through the line of tense Vanaras and the group of werewolves to leap into a tree near the brigadier. She attempted to hold her tail up in as non-threatening and perky a manner as possible. The tip was a bit difficult to control – it dangled and twitched like a small, furry, excited flag. Nevertheless, there was a gratifying gasp of fear and the sound of several rifles cocking, which suggested the cavalry thought her a real and dangerous lioness. She wondered how they reconciled the artfully draped orange scarf.

Brigadier Featherstonehaugh didn’t seem to notice her even when dangling above him on a tree branch. He was a large man on a large horse. He smelled of said horse mixed with expensive cigars, curry dinner, and coconut pastry. Clearly the loss of one’s beloved wife was not allowed to interfere with one’s enjoyment of supper. Beneath his impressive hat there was very little hair. He had pronounced eyebrows and a substantial moustache paired with an oddly diminutive beard.

He was accompanied by a young native gentleman in turban and British uniform, who was obviously his translator. This man was struggling to harmonise his position as herald in the face of a group of his own gods. He was bowing over and over to the Vanaras from his saddle.

The brigadier glared at him and said, “Stand to, soldier!” Then he turned to face the Vanaras.

“Monkey people,” he said. “Give me back my wife and the queen’s money, and we will be lenient with you.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh limped forward into the light of the fire. She raised her cane in salute. “Jammykins!”

“Snugglebutter!” said the brigadier. He was easily twice the age and size of his wife, but there was evidently at least some affection between them if the tenor of their endearments was to be believed.

“They have been very kind to me. The Vanaras are good-natured civilised creatures, much like werewolves. And the empire has accidentally mistreated them.”

“Now now, Snugglebutter, you know the empire is never wrong. I’ve read of this phenomenon. It happens sometimes with impressionable young ladies, taken in by the enemy – they become sympathetic to local causes.”

Mrs Featherstonehaugh stamped her foot. “Jammykins, I have not gone native.”

“No, dear heart, no, worse. Now you hush up and let your Jammykins handle this. It’s the queen’s business. Don’t you trouble your little head about it.”